


Four Musketeers and One Clear Shot

by libraryv



Series: Shots of Musketeer Adrenaline [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aramis teaching moment, Gen, d'Art learns another musketeer lesson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2020-11-28 18:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20970737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Aramis and d'Artagnan must rescue Athos and Porthos; Aramis gives some good advice.





	1. Two Shots in the Dark

“Come on, come _on.”_

D’Artagnan was squinting into the fading light, muttering to himself as he watched the empty fort wall; flakes of crystalline snow were settling on the bridge of his nose, he blinked, and one melted on his eye lash.

Dusk was making it harder and harder to see, and his tired muscles were screaming for movement. He was lying flat on his stomach, braced on his forearms, the harquebus steadied and loaded in his hands, ready to dole out its shot of death.

D’Artagnan shifted slightly in the wet mulch. In his peripheral vision, he could just make out the shape of Aramis’ hat beside him, his own gun at the ready. He was posed like d’Artagnan, but the relaxed lines of his body seemed completely at ease.

Aramis turned his head slightly, smiling at the young Musketeer.

“Ready? It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

D’Artagnan nodded, trying not to show his nerves. They had to make their shots count; it was either a chance to free Porthos and Athos, or, a chance to miss, creating a tricky mess and condemning their brothers for another day.

He heard them before he saw them. Their approach was obvious in the silence; the snowfall had turned the forest glen into a muffled cathedral of trees; their dark green spires reaching up like coniferous statues into the grey sky.

From this distance, they were more shadow than men, but d’Artagnan would know those figures anywhere. Athos’ shaggy hair, the silver chain around his neck catching the light of the lantern that the captor held; the slim frame radiating resistance. 

Behind Athos came Porthos’ heavier frame, and it was bowed, the broad silhouette of his shoulders was collapsed on the right side; some kind of injury. 

D’Artagnan brushed aside internal worry; Athos was there, and Porthos was strong.

They shuffled along wearily, their hands tied in front of them, and a length of rope connected them at their feet.

D’Artagnan waited until the leader of the procession was in range. He was trying to remember the various pieces of his shooting training; a myriad of suggestions and advice competing for attention in his brain. 

Mentally he began to run through instructions, but there was so much to remember, so much advice about positioning, and sightlines, and then he couldn’t quite recall what he had been told about the trigger: was he meant to pull it, or squeeze it?

His mind completely blanked: was there even a difference?

The pressure mounted as the grim lineup trudged past below them, and d’Artaganan tried to suppress his building panic: he was a decent shot, after all, it was just all the things he had to _remember_. 

At a slight tapping of Aramis’ fingers’ in the leaves between them, the two Musketeers fired into the darkness, the gunfire whipping sharply into the silence, angry sparks hissing into the snow beside them.

Aramis’ bullet found its mark, and the guard at the end of the procession dropped like a weight. 

D’Artagnan missed.


	2. The Missed Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan and Aramis have to rapidly re-adjust their rescue. D'Artagnan is hard on himself, but his brothers are there to help.

As soon as the bullet had left its chamber d’Artagnan knew he had missed the shot.

Aramis immediately began to reload, but d’Artagnan was already scrambling to his feet, half-tumbling down the hill, ignoring Aramis’ pleas to wait. Frustration and shame had surged immediately up, burning bright in his chest.

D’Artagnan slid down the last few steps, and his feet hit flat, snow-covered ground. He burst into a run, his sword drawn and his emotions running hot.

He hadn’t missed by much; the bullet had hit the wall above the man’s head by a mere inch or two. The small explosion of stone fragments was still raining down as d’Artaganan pelted in his direction.

Athos had reacted with typical lightning control; he had taken advantage of the temporary distraction and come up behind their captor, flinging his bound hands in front of him, over and around the man’s neck. Porthos, right shoulder still worringly slumped, and still tied to Athos’ feet, offered his bracing weight as Athos gave a hard jerk of his chains. The man fell to the ground, and Porthos slumped to his knees. The effort had cost him.

At the same time, more men came swarming out of the fort’s doorway; the gunshots and commotion had raised the alarm. 

They had planned on retaliation, but they had counted on bringing down the first two men and freeing Athos and Porthos. Now they’d be fighting compromised.

D’Artagnan’s chest was heaving, and the first man to come at him met the end of his blade with a single, brutal slice forward. He was not feeling inclined to show much mercy, or even to enjoy the crossing of swords; he withdrew his blade and plunged it into his next opponent’s chest so fast it made his own head spin. His fury with himself was a battle cry in his blood; he would _not_ be the reason this rescue failed.

Aramis was a peripheral whirl of sword and cloak to his left, and between the two of them, they managed to make quick work of the half-dozen men who had rushed to fight. D'Artagnan was like a rabid dog let loose from its cage. They stilled, panting, swords whooshing to a halt in the air; snowflakes mixing with the blood on the steel. A few seconds of silence as the four men looked at each other.

Porthos, watching from his knees, had collapsed against the wall, gritting his teeth and streaming sweat. They had bought themselves a few minutes before more men were sent.

“Well,” said Aramis, glancing at the bodies heaped on the snowy ground at their feet. “You’re welcome.”

Porthos broke into a tired chuckle which changed into a grimace as Aramis drew his arm around him and brought the larger man to his feet. D’Artagnan stepped forward and caught Athos in a relieved embrace, and Athos brought his own forehead to d’Artagnan’s; the calm blue eyes of his older brother a quenching relief. D’Artagnan closed his own eyes, his internal fire spent.

“We’ve got a camp set up aways from here; let’s head there before more find us.” Aramis gestured to Porthos’ shoulder.

“And where I can take a closer look at that cut.”

D’Artagnan leaned down and sliced through the rope at Athos and Porthos’ feet. The friends set off back up the hill into the forest gloom; the snow falling heavy and soft around them. The woods were dark and watchful, the tree boughs laden with mounds of white that glittered in the dark.

D’Artagnan and Athos walked ahead; Porthos and Aramis kept pace behind them.

“You are frustrated.” It was an observation, not a question, and this wasn’t the first time that d’Artagnan was grateful for his older brother’s quiet ability to read his mind without judgement.

D’Artagnan stuck out his tongue and caught a snowflake, considering. 

“Shooting a gun isn’t like fighting with a sword.”

A sound of agreement from beside him.

“Not at all.”

D’Artagnan raised his arm out in front of him into the shadows, twisting his wrist elegantly.

“My sword is like an extension of my hand. I barely even have to think. Besides which, it's much more graceful than a gun. The only way to fight is with a blade.”

“You will find no argument from me, there.”

They exchanged a knowing smile, then d’Artagnan sighed.

“I missed the shot.”

He looked over. Athos’ eyes gleamed in the shadows, brimming with understanding.

“We have all missed shots, believe me.”

“Yes, but this time it counted.”

“Does not every shot count?” Athos laid a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“You have nothing to fear but your own doubt.”

“I agree.” 

The last words came from Aramis; he and Porthos had fallen in step just behind them. A quick glance between Athos and Aramis, and Athos turned and joined Porthos. 

The snowfall was thick and fast now, hiding their tracks. They walked in silence. D’Artagnan was not used to confiding in charming, self-assured Aramis, but if Athos thought that speaking with Aramis would help, then that’s what he would do.

He sighed, and looked at his brother’s patient face.

“All right.”


	3. A Piece of Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan has a heart to heart with Aramis, and the expert marksman has some surprising advice.

Porthos and Athos walked ahead, the silent forest swallowing their figures. D’Artagnan could feel Aramis’ eyes on him, the friendly expectation in them appealing to the Gascon’s natural openness.

He looked over at Aramis, shaking his head slightly and running a hand through his snow-soaked hair. 

“I’m angry at myself for missing my shot back there. I wasn’t - I didn’t - feel in control, and I nearly ruined the rescue.”

There was no cavalier dismissal of d’Artagnan’s feelings at this. Aramis merely studied him kindly, then said, 

“What do you remember from your training with Clement?”

D’Artagnan dutifully began listing off various pieces of his training.

“Wait for your line of sight to match the perfect shot, don’t fire unless you know exactly where it will land, don’t forget to keep your shoulder loose but your arm steady, or, wait - I always forget - is it keep your shoulder steady and your arm loose? Don’t pull the weapon up before the bullet lands, don’t-”

Aramis held up his hand, shaking his head.

“Forget all of that for a moment.”

D’Artagnan looked at him, surprised, and Aramis gestured into the watchful, quiet trees. 

“It might be dark as pitch, or the sun could be right in your eyes. You might be injured; your own pain so great that merely lifting the gun to your sight line is almost more effort than you can stand.”

There was no condescension in Aramis’ tone; he just continued in his straightforward way, his dark eyes glimmering underneath the brim of his hat.

“You might be dealing with returning fire, constantly changing position, constantly reloading.”

“I’ve never been able to recall a long list of instructions in moments like that. Treville told me something years ago, and it’s the only thing I could ever remember. It’s seen me through every kind of situation.”

Aramis stopped, and d’Artagnan echoed him, the two men facing each other in the dark. Aramis was looking at him, his handsome face earnest.

“Don’t wait for the perfect moment, because it will never exist.” 

D’Artagnan blinked. That was not what he had expected.

“The seconds you spend letting pressure build, waiting for everything to line up perfectly, can cost you. I don’t mean to undermine Clement’s training; of course the other things are good for practice.”

He clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder with an encouraging smile.

“Don’t ever let Athos hear me say this, but sometimes, thinking is overrated. You’ve already got good aim, and you’re a decent marksman as it is. Don’t second-guess yourself, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan looked at his feet, then back up at Aramis, unable to hide the smile breaking on his own face. The praise from his talented brother was warming his cheeks. Aramis gave him a confident nod. 

“If you’ve got an open line of sight, _any_ line of sight, then fire.”

D’Artagnan let out a laugh. It seemed so easy, so obviously simple.

“That’s it? If I have a clear shot, then take it?”

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Exactly.”

He grinned at D’Artagnan, giving him a wink, and his teeth flashed white in the dark. 

“That goes for women, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay between chapters! This fall has been strange and busy and strange. :D Thank you for sticking with it/me; one more chapter to go for d'art to test out his advice. :D


	4. One Clear Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan has a chance to test out Aramis' advice.

The small fire cast dancing shadows on the surrounding snow; eerie, transient shapes that lengthened and twisted before disappearing and surging forth again. 

D’Artagnan held his hands in front of it gratefully, drawing a deep breath and letting warmth bleed into him. 

Athos lay slumped against a nearby tree, his hat pulled over his face, his cloak acting as a blanket.

Aramis and Porthos were seated to the other side of the fire, Aramis’ deft hands stitching the deep gash that ran from Porthos’ neck to the centre of his shoulder. The wound gaped black in the firelight, and Porthos was breathing heavily through his nose; Aramis’ steady stream of good-natured chatter an attempt at distraction.

The snowfall had stopped, and despite the biting cold, d’Artagnan felt contentment steal through him. He yawned. 

In the distance, d’Artagnan heard a quick crack; too sharp to belong to the spitting and hissing from the fire. He whipped his head up and exchanged a look with Aramis; there was no way anyone could have followed them. 

Athos was shifting uneasily in his sleep; he must have snapped a twig. Aramis turned his attention back to Porthos’ stitches, and d’Artagnan returned his gaze uneasily to the dancing flames, wondering if it was too late to douse them.

Another sound from the surrounding dark; this time a muffled thump, and D’Artagnan’s heart picked up speed: figures appeared at the edge of the clearing, scattered between the trees, their faces ghostly and menacing in the flickering light. 

The men from the fort. It didn’t matter how they were followed, but that they were here. 

Athos was getting to his feet; elegant even in scrambled, half-asleep haste. Aramis had frozen in place at Porthos’ shoulder, helpless frustration darkening his features with the curved needle glinting in one hand. 

Then, everything sped up and exploded into a firework of detailed sensation; the sound of Athos’ blade meeting another man’s sword, Aramis’ shouted warning for Porthos to stay still, and the burn of d’Artagnan’s own tired muscles protesting as he ran full tilt into the clearing to join Athos.

He reached the clearing as one of the men came at him, blade drawn. D’Artagnan kept running, and sank to his knees at the last moment, catching the grip of Athos’ thrown sword in his left hand. He crossed it with his own, slicing a brutal x on the man’s thighs. The man screamed and went down, as d’Artagnan jumped to his feet and turned back around, tossing Athos’ blade back to him. He and Athos spun around each other, and d’Artagnan stabbed Athos’ opponent on one side as Athos finished the howling man on the other. 

They stood, breathing hard, as three more men appeared from between the trees.

“One would think we practiced that,” was all Athos said, smiling and grasping d'Artagnan's shoulder.

D'Artagnan could fight like this forever. This was effortless, the blades striking, the reverberation echoing through his arms and into his chest; he craved that steel heartbeat. 

A few well-placed strokes of their swords later, Athos and d’Artagnan had bested the men. D’Artagnan thrust his blade into a pile of snow, then wiped it clean on his pants as he looked back into the clearing.

Aramis had stopped stitching Porthos. He had stood up was battling one of two men who had made it into the clearing. Porthos was stumbling through a fight, but he was still bare chested and half-stitched, and d’Artagnan could tell that the big musketeer was on the verge of collapse.

The firelight was playing tricks on his eyesight. D’Artagnan squinted into the surrounding trees; he couldn’t tell if there were still more men out there or if the movement he caught was just figmented shadows. He turned, ignoring Athos’ soft call of warning, and began to walk softly through the trees.

Suddenly, he saw a glint of metal in the flickering light and a puff of breath clouding in the air. One of the trespassers was hidden behind a tree trunk to his right, raising a gun in the direction of Porthos and Aramis.

D’Artagnan fumbled in his holster for his own weapon. 

It was dark, too dark to see the man’s body clearly. D’Artagnan could barely make out an arm holding the gun, attached to a shadowy torso. The snow that had begun falling again was a hazy, frustrating veil, and he didn’t even know if his gun would fire in the wet flakes. If only the man would shift a foot over...

_Don’t wait for the perfect moment, because it doesn’t exist._

D’Artagnan took a slow, even breath. He raised his pistol and aimed.

_If you have a clear shot, take it._

The slight tremor in his hand stilled, and he fired.

The sound of the shot ricocheted off the echoing one in response; the man had turned, spotting him, and fired almost at the same time. 

Almost.

D’Artagnan stumbled out of the way and to the side, losing his footing as tree bark exploded beside him. His hand flew out to the tree, but the frosty bark was slippery, and he crashed to the ground. He could feel wet snow seeping in at his knees, and he looked up, breathing hard, to see if his bullet had landed. 

It had. The other man lay in a heap, the fast falling snow providing a ghostly blanket. D’Artagnan stood, heart racing with adrenaline, and turned at the sound of footsteps. 

Aramis was walking towards him, wearing raised eyebrows and an amused smile. He nodded at the body by the trees. 

“That couldn’t have been an easy shot.”

D’Artagnan grinned.

“It wasn’t.”

Aramis laughed, and d’Artagnan let out a shaky breath, leaning forward with his palms on his thighs. 

“Come on, Musketeer,” smiled Aramis, putting his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder and coaxing him upright. 

“Let’s go convince Porthos that he has to sit still for his stitches again.”


End file.
